The Pilgrims of Saint Sebastian

The Pilgrims of Saint Sebastian

By Alexi LeFevre

Copyright © 2015 by Alexi LeFevre

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents:

Part One - Chapter One

Part One - Chapter Two

Part One - Chapter Three

Part One - Chapter Four

Part Two - Chapter One

Part Two - Chapter Two

Part Two - Chapter Three

Part Three - Chapter One

Part Three - Chapter Two

Part Three - Chapter Three

Part One

Chapter One

A story’s listener must have the luxury of time, so you may put away your watch and give your hours to me. When I was younger, I used to strum a guitar and sing my stories, and although old men do not sing, I can still spin tales that will have misers emptying their pockets for the last coin. I might mention how Nicky Astor, the young musician with a lifetime of acculturated pain, placed a gun against his temple at that gentle spot where one often combs the hair back over the ears, if it is long enough. You see! Already the seed of curiosity has sprouted. Some have accused me of embellishment, and it is true, but do not think me a liar. I fill in the gaps when I must. But rest assured, at the core of my stories lies the absolute truth, and certainly it is here at the heart of this sad story about the poor musician and those like him. Am I sentimental, too? Without doubt! But all storytellers are sentimentalists, let me tell you, and because this story is about redemption, I will not make excuses. Now of course, we all have our muse, but for the storyteller, it is not enough. He must plummet head first into the love and hate and ecstasy and shame. Sentimentalism is commitment! The muse weeps and the storyteller must soak the ground with his own tears. The muse cheers and the storyteller splits the heavens with his own cries of joy. The muse suffers inescapable anguish and we must, too! The breech loaded, we must precariously press the cold metal against our own flesh. Why do this? Because anything less than this full commitment is a slight against their nobility. But do not think I am soft. I have caused my own share of anger and tears in my many decades and I have the scars of shackles on my wrists to prove it, but that story can wait. I was speaking of the emotional commitment to muses. So let us get on then with Nicky Astor and the conclusive and autumnal nighttime that was settling over the Texas brush like a cloak.

Now those types of pistols, cheap and old, were plenty in the part of north Texas that formed an oblong crown atop the rest of the state and where two roads ran like thin black lines across the crushed graham cracker dirt. The first road had come from the oceans. The second from Canada and Mexico. Where they intersected, there was a dirt-covered bulls eye over the poor town of Shamrock. It’s glory days were long since gone. Shamrock was an empty place that sat under the cool sun with the defeated resignation of an old man taking an afternoon nap. Everything in it stank of the past. The Highway Inn Motel and the bland rooms and the darkened bathroom and Nicky’s cheap pistol. His cell phone, which showed the final missed call from a young woman, still looked new, but that was because it came from far away. New York City. He closed his eyes and the illumination from the screen made his face the only visible thing in the room: a green-tinged and sad caricature.

He sat on the toilet seat, with the pistol to his temple and his head cocked at an angle. Once already his finger had touched the trigger and then withdrawn. Now his body rose up and settled with a momentous exhalation and his finger returned. His eyes were closed but the undulating and organic movements of his eyelids showed that his mind was not blank. The walls in the bathroom were covered with a fine grease and the floor was dusty, but it was only the beginning of concentric circles of messiness, which must have seemed appropriate for the final moment of such a messy life.

Beyond the bathroom door, the room was a scattered nest of clothes and fast food wrappers. On the lumpen twin mattress, a pile of torn receipts looked as if they were being prepared for a bonfire. The air conditioner’s force nudged the corner of one of the receipts, which read, in bold letters at the top: Berkshire Garden Homes, 342 8th Street, Brooklyn, New York, 11215. And beneath that, two menacing words raged in red font: Overdue Rent. And then the air conditioner gave a metallic grunt. The cough scattered the torn shreds. Another started with the sentence: Regarding your legal proceedings… The bathroom door was shut but not locked and a muffled and musical sound crept along the floor and under the jamb. Although it was coming from the television’s old speakers, the musical notes were bright and cheery. On the screen, a man with long hair played the guitar. He was a corpulent Brazilian musician and although he smiled as he made his music, the song had a sad way about it. Also appropriate, I suppose. The room and the music. Exemplars of grime and melancholy.

Outside the late November twilight was slipping into nighttime. The parking lot was dying at the highway and giving way to the broad and dry expanse of moonlit north Texas. It looked like a glacier under the growing moon: white and barren and easy to get lost in. A single crow had settled at the edge of the lot where a brand-new Ford truck sat parked. With quick and angry movements, it fluttered its wings once and then twice. It scratched the ground and shook its head. It seemed to settle into a stupor with its clear and starry eyes facing in the direction of his hotel room window. Without the slightest movement, the crow remained there the entire night, as if standing guard. What was it guarding? And why? Or had it simply lost itself in the air and settled on that spot to rest? Who knows. It did not blink, not even when the air wavered with the sound, not of a gunshot, but of a pistol’s hammer falling upon the metallic expanse of a chambered round. It seemed that those types of pistols were cheap and old and plenty, but also unreliable. He struggled to comprehend the twist of fate and we will possibly never know just how grateful Nicky was, that young, blonde-haired musician, whose life, like a rock on the beach, had been worn away by the erosive force of uncontrollable events. When the blackness overhead began to bleed away and the scarlet and orange in the east turned frightening, the crow finally lifted its head, cawed once, and then shot off into the air.

He came lumbering out of the hotel room into that floral and fiery sunrise, carrying in one hand an old leather guitar case and in the other a duffel bag. He tossed them into the brand-new Ford truck. Four hours later, he was playing quiet and melancholy songs in an empty corner of the airport in Miami. Before boarding his flight, he waited shoulder-to-shoulder with the chattering crowd. He stood behind a dark-skinned priest, his collar white as bone, staring intently into an open Bible. Nicky remained silent and did not say a word until hours later, when he rose up from sleep and looked through the narrow window and saw an emerald and glowing coast beneath the blue morning on the horizon. He whispered the lyrics of an old song: Livin’ in a world I just don’t understand, tryin’ to find peace, in a diff’rent land. In the reflection of the frosted glass, his eyes were just as blue as the color of the Atlantic Ocean at dawn because he had slept and not eaten. He put peanuts into his mouth and gazed endlessly at the first dusty brown hints of the city miles below. The air thickened and his ears felt like they were packed with gauze. After a few more minutes, there was a vigorous bump, and then the sound of a terrible wind, and then silence and he looked out at Rio de Janeiro.

* * *

The night of Nicky’s arrival, there was a funeral in a favela known simply as Mundão. A man mentioned that there was no priest but the woman Alice Neves muttered under her breath, That bastard Orelhão didn’t believe in God anyway.

It was a sparse ceremony, held in a small courtyard covered by tall royal palms and jacaranda trees. The overhanging foliage created a gray and emerald roof that blocked out the moon but none of the four people present looked beyond the small photograph of the man they had all called Orelhão. The photo had a walnut frame and sat upon a metal folding chair and they stood around it in a loose circle. When it came time for Alice to say some words, she inhaled for a long moment and watched the earth’s breath rising from the moist soil. Three men stood nearby. Their hands were at their sides and their faces were silent. She parted her lips and they craned their necks towards her voice.

Death is nothing new, she said. We all know this. Overhead, a tree frond shuddered and a small monkey’s orange eyes were visible in the darkness, leering at them. We’ll avenge Orelhão. We’ll get the bastards who brought him in. Although they were men with their own accomplishments, they said nothing and did nothing until she turned away, indicating she was done with the short ceremony. After a moment, they, too, left. She passed through the hallways of her compound and climbed into the back of a jeep parked in front. A large man in the passenger seat adjusted an automatic weapon on his lap as the jeep rolled forward into the full and clear night. It took ten minutes to arrive at the bottom and she hopped out and greeted three armed men with gruff shoulder pats, jocular slaps, and crude jokes about their girlfriends. There was a table nearby where two young men handed over small plastic bags and accepted cash in various denominations. Off in a far corner, two teenage boys were sitting counting cash between their outstretched legs. Far to her left and right side, hidden from public view, two men held large automatic weapons. She closed her eyes and took in a long, deep breath.

Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana and Rua dos Santos formed a small intersection but the locals simply called this area the boca de fumo and it was perpetually populated with a murky combination of crack-addicted men and women, homeless children, low-level drug dealers, prostitutes, corrupt police officers, and sun-burned tourists who had come to get whatever they could find. Comando Vermelho had always sold marijuana there. Crack made an appearance after some time, followed by ecstasy and then acid, but in the past few years there had been a surge in demand for cocaine amongst Brazil’s impolite and wealthy youth who were riding their parents’ coattails in the new economy.

She left the jeep and moved silently under the streetlamps, observing the transactions. Her brown hair was cut short in a bob, but it was wild and came down past her ears and settled along her cheeks like the frayed edge of an unkempt skirt, separating and joining as she rolled her large brown eyes from the hands of the dealers to those of the customers. She barely stood over five feet but nearly everyone gave her space. It was her patient and bold scrutiny, like that of a sculptor, which set her apart. As she walked, the orange streetlights played against the butt of a pistol visibly tucked into her pants. The metal looked like scuffed silver but the butt was made of dark wood and carved into one side of it was the name of a woman: Flavia. A tall black man stood at the edge where the favela ended and the city of Rio de Janeiro began. He played with the edges of his skin-tight black shirt and constantly had the beginning of a contented grin on his lips.

It’s going fast, Bonequinha, he said. We’ll clear one hundred-fifty thousand tonight.

She nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. As she walked, he trailed close behind her. He was nearly six feet tall, very thin, and his tight black clothes gave the appearance that her silhouette was chasing her. They stopped at the corner where she watched the thick nighttime traffic on Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana passing a lottery store. Horns rang out and the sounds were funneled down the street to where they all stood amongst the beggars and addicts. There was little movement from the cars and their brake lights had colored the asphalt, the windows, and the haggard faces of the old men lighting their pipes a lascivious scarlet hue.

She said, It’s a shame. About Orelhão.

The thin black man shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. He had soft eyes that, upon closer inspection, looked to be outlined with mascara. His cheekbones edged out his face with a prominence that suggested malnutrition, but he moved with relative energy. He would have been fine in Campo Grande, probably safer there than outside of the prison. Suicide is the worst way to go.

I don’t give a fuck about his suicide, Bichinho. I’m talking about the cops and witnesses that put him away and all the shit that’s happening. She had turned back and begun walking towards the jeep. She stared at the line of junkies, hunched and broken down as they waited, their trembling hands holding dirtied bank notes. The state is starting to grow some balls and their fucking with the movement.

She took one last look around. Where the table stood, a line of buyers had formed and she glanced at them, some locals but a few white tourists, most with ponytails and beards. After a moment, she climbed back into the jeep. It turned and began the slow ascent up the road of broken bricks and holes. It rocked back and forth and she grabbed the handle over the door, maintaining a comfortable and familiar observance of the poverty and misery that occupied the lives of the residents of Mundão. The car slowed at the first hairpin bend in the road. Already Casa do Oswaldo, which occupied the inner curve of the road, was full of men and women, standing and moving their hands back and forth, from each other to the little cups of draft beer sitting on the plastic tables. The exterior of the bar was painted with scarlet and black horizontal stripes, rising up from where the cinderblock wall met the dirt, and near the entrance was the shield insignia of the Clube de Regatas do Flamengo. Just that evening, Flamengo had suffered a terrible loss to Vasco da Gama and had slipped from the top ten rankings. The desolate few who remained were the Flamenguistas who chose to drink their sorrows out of their heads. In one corner of the bar, two men sat playing guitars and singing mournfully. The eponymous owner moved behind the bar, pulling draft beer with a grin on his face. The car swung around the turn and trudged up the sloping road.

Along one side of the road, there was a gray cement wall, and painted in random groupings were the letters CV. She looked at it with an air of familiarity. The small homes to her right disappeared as they climbed up the road and when they turned again, the earth suddenly fell away to the east and the entirety of Copacabana’s nighttime presence, glittering, twinkling, hazy and full of the smoke and breath of cariocas and tourists, revealed itself. The dark sensuous hills of Leme, covered in lamps and lights, looked like a woman wearing pearls, lying in repose, with the gentle curve of her back up against the ocean. Unconsciously, she hummed a Milton Nascimento song from her childhood.

For security reasons, she lived at the very top of the favela, and her compound was an intricate web of interconnected shanty homes. There were multiple rooms and courtyards and entries and exits, but from the exterior it looked much the same as all the other shanty homes that the ordinary residents lived in, with the exception of added security. She saw three young black men standing in front of the compound, pistols tucked beneath the drawstrings of their pants. The driver began turning toward the compound, but just then she put a hand on his shoulder.

Wait, take us past the old church. I want to see it again, she said.

They turned and continued along the road until the ground was clear and flat and they saw the gate that marked the area where the old abandoned church once stood. She got out of the jeep and stood near the gate. Her hands found the bars and squeezed. The windows of the house were shut except for one on the second floor and ghostly white drapes fluttered through its opening, caught by the ocean wind that clawed its way up the hill. Recessed lights under the eaves of the roof and near the door illuminated the building and gave it a regal look. The pathway that continued on behind the iron gate was made of white gravel and lined on both sides with small white glowing orb. Tall letters were fixed to the top of the building and read out: Babylon. To her right and left, some of the residents of Mundão had taken up positions to stare with gawking mouths and dead eyes. A poor black man held a shovel and looked vacuous. Next to him, a woman held a baby in her arms while a little girl tugged at her blouse. Three old men stood off a little ways, scratching themselves and their bellies, which indicated their fondness for cheap draft beer. After a moment or two, some of them moved on. A breeze caught the short cuts of Alice’s hair, blew them against her nose, and she flinched. She glared at the open window for a long time but there was no movement. When she returned to her compound, she dismantled her pistol and cleaned it meticulously. She was still humming the Milton Nascimento song to herself.

* * *

The next morning, an elderly man descended the stairs of a bus one-by-one in front of Rio’s central bus station. The sun was just visible over the lip of the rest of the city near the ocean, and his narrow shadow was long and jagged across the ground. The air was cool. From somewhere, a moist breeze had blown in as if from a waterfall. Along the sidewalks, passengers crowded the spaces, rushing to catch buses while others had already alighted and were now darting across Avenida Presidente Vargas. Cars and taxis were competing for space and the drivers were leaning from their windows and craning their necks and slamming on their brakes and little clouds of dust rose in the air where the tires had come to rest. He remained aloof and disconnected from it all. The crowds did not disturb him. The children holding their fathers’ hands did not look up at his towering figure with curiosity. Like a river splitting itself in two around an immobile stone, the cariocas paid no attention to the elderly man, moving around and beyond his presence without any further thought.

His habit was simple, an earth-colored cassock held tight by a belt of jute rope. Near his left foot on the ground was a small valise of items, mostly those necessary for personal hygiene. His hair was nearly all gone except for the distinct appearance of ash-colored fuzz that only appeared in the sunlight. Carved into the black skin of his face were only a few lines that indicated a much younger age. What indicated his true age were the brief ponderous moments on his face, before he made a movement, to pick up his valise or step down from the curb, which suggested he was assessing his body’s fragility to avoid disastrous mistakes. He looked around. The streets swarmed with white and tan skins. He stretched out his right hand, maneuvering the fingers up and down and turning the palm towards the ground. He examined the geometry of lines, like spider webs, etched into his skin like the cracked face of an obsidian statue.

Father Antônio Macedo de Evangelista walked along Avenida Presidente Vargas, his face grim, looking up at the morning sunlight and the tall buildings on either side. The road was busy with taxis and city buses, which rolled with heavy movements over the asphalt and came to screeching halts at the traffic lights. He stood at an intersection and watched the hurried movements of the people around him, passing him on the sidewalk. He was taller than average and so he looked down at the tops of the heads of the domestic servants going to apartments in the wealthy South Zone, of the street sellers dusting their carts with quick, fairy-like movements, of the beggars and cripples who asked for change from men and women in suits, of the self-selected vagabonds who grew out thick matted beards and wandered shirtless and barefoot, picking through trashcans and smoking cigarette filters from the ground. It was a desultory group. His right hand moved to the cross hanging from his neck. Farther along Avenida Presidente Vargas, he dodged pushcarts of candy bars and cell phone chargers. At the intersection with Avenida Rio Branco, he stopped and stared ahead at the Candelária Church and then crossed over to it. A vagrant had propped himself up against the outer wall and the bishop leaned over and dropped a coin into his hat: For the children, he said. May the Lord watch over their souls. Thank you, senhor, the man said.

The sun was in the sky at its low summertime angle, moving in a slow arc over the ocean, but the bishop was not sweating. He turned away from the Candelária Church and walked down Rua Primeiro de Março, seeing the double Gothic columns, the dark brickwork colored like rust, and behind the columns, the towering spire. As he passed in front of the building and stopped, he made the sign of the cross. Years ago, it had been the seat of the archdiocese, but then a modern architect built a new cathedral elsewhere and the archdiocese had moved there. He looked to his left and right and then down at the corner where the exterior wall of the cathedral met the large stone slabs of the sidewalk. Three knocks rang against the heavy wooden door. As his hand settled back against his leg, a pigeon released its droppings onto his right shoulder. He was still examining the cloth of his habit when the door opened and the face of the deacon appeared.

Your Grace, you’ve arrived!

The young deacon looked surprised. The bishop nodded, neither angry nor frustrated, and gently prodded the young man into action. He closed the door to the dusty movements on Praça XV and walked at a slow pace so the bishop could follow. I received notice from Dom Francisco. His Grace, the Archbishop, told me that you would be staying here for an indeterminate period of time and that we should provide you with the lodging and support that you are due. The lighting was dark in the nave of the cathedral but the bishop still recognized the shade of the young clergyman’s face turn a deeper scarlet. He also noted the deacon’s pronounced carioca accent, a fascinating chiado process that transformed words ending in s’s into crushed sounds like sssshhhhh.

All I will need, deacon, is your support for one night. I have already procured separate lodging at the site of the new center.

The deacon stopped abruptly and turned. The old bishop nearly collided with him. You’ll be staying in Mundão?

You do not think this is a good idea.

No, Your Grace, it’s not that. It’s just, but the deacon swallowed whatever words he was about to say and regained a shred of his composure. We will support you in whatever way we can.

The small room, meant for traveling clergymen to seek solitude and meditate, was about four-square meters and located in a long corridor behind the main altar. It had a simple bed, a wooden desk with a chair, and on the far wall, there was a square window at head height, which looked out into the old cloisters. The bishop set his valise down on the bed and turned towards the deacon, who stood near the door awkwardly folding his hands together at his waist.

Thank you, deacon, for your help.

The young man nodded respectfully and turned slightly before freezing in place. His mouth chewed on something invisible and curious; the bishop recognized it, for he had seen this curiosity many times since that moment years ago.

You have something to say.

The deacon opened his mouth, but then stopped and swallowed. He took two steps closer and whispered as if confessing apostasy. Your Grace, forgive me, it is not my place to ask questions of your past.

But it is true, what they say, the bishop said. About my past. He was neither angry nor surprised.

I’m sorry, I should not have said anything.

The bishop stayed his voice with an open palm hanging in the air. My son, all I can tell you is this: Never accept sin, not even if it lives in the heart of your own mother.

The deacon shivered from something in the bishop’s eyes and he begged his pardon before retreating from the room. When the door closed, the bishop remained standing for a while. He finally lay upon the bed and closed his eyes and the sun kept its respectful and determined guardianship.

* * *

A gray, sickly light was coloring the morning air and when Nicky awoke in his room, he heard the gentle fall of hollow raindrops against the glass. He closed the window and then went back to his bed, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. He got up and looked through his duffel bag for any leftover cigarettes. There were none. When at last the darkness began to creep in on him, he did what he had always done to ward off the sadness for one more day: he picked up his guitar and began playing. It was an old guitar, worn in places and not at all pleasant to look at it, but it delivered a miraculous and comforting sound.

The voluptuous curve of mahogany rose up over her rear like the taut silk of a dress, albeit one with faults and years. It dropped under the first curve at the hip, and ducked into her waist, but not so deep as to suggest she was new, young. There was the thickness and fullness of her age, which made her desirable. That hourglass hip gave a gentle push when he rested his right forearm there. From there, the mahogany rose up to her shoulder and met her neckline. He had held her many times there. He leaned back on the old hostel mattress, propping his back against the flaking wall, and he cocked an eye at the headstock and ran the tips of his left fingers over the edge of the fret board. It did not take him long to begin writing, in the small spiral notebook he always took with him, but the song had no direction. He played a G chord, which was bright and pleasant. His lips were tight and frustrated and his eyes looked angry, but when he played a melancholy minor chord, his features loosened and he let out a gentle breath of air. After a moment, he stopped and looked out wearily at the gray color beyond the window. His hands wandered and settled on the back of the guitar body, up near where the neck joined, and he leaned it forward and read the woman’s name, carved a long time ago into the wood. The gentle script and shallow letters were indicative of a weak and delicate hand. For a long time, he watched that name, and the gray intruded into the room and filled the corners with wet shadows. His eyes colored over with pain and nostalgia and he suddenly turned to writing again until the rain had finally subsided an hour later and the room was beginning to turn the brighter color of light reflected off of pond water.

He stepped outside and stood in the courtyard where he had napped the day before. Everything had the wet look of a ship’s deck in a storm: gray, slimy, and shimmering. The hammock drooped listlessly and the little wooden chairs and tables were abandoned. He stood there and had a lost look on his face. Nobody was in the lobby and so he left the hostel and stood on the street corner for a long while, his arms hanging at his sides and his head moving back and forth, following the languorous movements of the traffic along Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana. Small and indecisive groups of cars crawled across the asphalt, lights on and windshields flickering with the passage of the wipers. It was only midday and although gray clouds had swept in over the city, the weather did not turn vicious. It was quiet and dim and peaceful. He looked down the cross street, and caught the sight of the beach in between the lines of gray buildings. He waited for the crossing signal and walked slowly, deliberately, across Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana, his hands in his pockets and his eyes scanning the ground in front of him. His hair was scattered again, caught in the wind, but his face looked well rested and his blue eyes glittered from the soft light. Two blocks farther down, he emerged from between the buildings and stood at the street corner, looking at the beach on the other side. The blue sign read Avenida Atlântica, and below that, against a white stripe, was the name of the neighborhood in blue lettering: Copacabana.

It was a broad beach, spreading out from left to right, and he took it in with one long sweep of his head, the layers of coloration before him like antique artwork: the gray of the road, the dull brown of the stretch of sand that went out to the cool gray band of Atlantic water, and then crossing up over the horizon, which was stippled with distant cargo freighters, came the ash-colored, woolen sky and its featureless cloud ceiling. He looked over to his left and saw a tall hill, with steeply sloped sides rising up out of the water. Cables ran like loosely-tied ropes from the peak to somewhere out of view, and he saw tiny cars appear and disappear, ferrying passengers up to the summit and bringing them back down again. To the right, the beach continued on, curving gently along the coast until it ended at what looked like a low outcropping of brown rocks. He waited again for the light to change and crossed the street to the beach. Here, he watched crowds of tourists walking next to where the sand began. The sidewalk here was made of small broken black and white stones laid out like an ancient mural. The pattern resembled black and white waves, like a monochrome recreation of the ocean. There were small stands every few hundred meters, each with chairs and tables set out, and decorated with their own distinctive theme. The one he stood next to now had one word, Praiabilidade, on top, and a few groups of men and women at the tables lined up near where the sidewalk ended and the sand began. Another stand farther down was red and white and looked like a Coca-Cola bottle. Nicky stood there, his hands still in his pockets, scanning the beach and then the road where a man trotted along the sidewalk pulling a large two-wheeled cart of beach chairs as if guiding a rickshaw. Then he turned and saw a little black boy moving amongst the tables, holding a wooden box with a step attached to the top. His skinny legs jutted out from a pair of dirty shorts and he wore no shirt. He occasionally picked at his hair, and when he approached people to ask if they wanted a shine, he stuck one hand on his hip confidently and watched them with the aggressive intensity of a professional conman. Nobody took him up on the offer until a European-looking man nodded and put his foot out. The boy sat down on the sidewalk with the box between his legs. He propped the man’s foot up on the step and took out a tin of wax and Nicky watched his movements, the practiced strokes of his little hands holding the rag, the quick, bird-like bobbing of his head, and the jaunty way he held the buffer, pushing it up and over the leather as if he was brushing his own hair in a mirror.

The wind had picked up and turned colder, and when he got back to the hostel, it was still quiet and empty, but then he heard animated conversation coming from the courtyard. He came around the corner and saw the young kid he recognized from the front desk. He sat in a chair with his legs tucked up underneath his body and played with his dreadlocks. Next to him was a young girl. Her black hair was tied up and rested in a rough ponytail over her shoulder. She had a nose ring, wore a white tank top and jean shorts, and held a cigarette with a trucker’s masculinity. Nicky sat down nearby and the young man turned to him. He spoke in English with a heavy Hispanic accent: Hey man, want a beer?

He glanced at them and said, Yeah, I guess.

The kid got up energetically and hopped over to a refrigerator along one end of the patio, withdrawing three bottles. He came back over and said, Come join us here. Nicky nodded. He glanced at the face of a clock hanging from a far wall; it was shaped like a guitar and colored blue, yellow and green. It was just after one o’clock. A tall tree was growing in the middle of the courtyard, and two birds sat atop one branch calling to each other with romantic sounds. The sky was still cloud-covered, but the sunlight had begun to lighten the color from dark gray to a smoky white. Nicky held the bottle and read the label.

Man, it’s really good, it’s Brazilian beer, the young kid with dreadlocks said. He grabbed his hair in one handful and flicked it all back behind him. Where are you from?

America, Nicky said, putting the bottle to his lips. He set it down on the wooden table and rested his hand near it.

Ah, I knew it, you look American.

What city? New York? the girl asked. Her head was tilted to one side, the side of the nose ring, and she gazed at him from across the table with broad and brown eyes.

He shook his head and took another sip. From Texas, a small town. Have you heard of Texas?

They both nodded and the young kid started singing the words to an old ZZ Top tune. He misspoke some of the lyrics and sang with a heavy accent. After a moment, he stopped and asked how it was. Nicky shrugged and the kid said, I’m from Argentina, Buenos Aires. She’s Brazilian.

He nodded and sipped the beer, choosing the floor or the wall in favor of making eye contact. The young kid said his name was Xavi, and she said Gisele, and they shook hands and drank quietly and easily for a minute. Xavi turned to him. Why are you in Brazil? Did you kill someone?

He shook his head. No, I didn’t kill anyone. He hesitated to say something. He inhaled, about to open his mouth, but then exhaled and looked down at the bottle of beer.

Gisele asked, Do you play guitar? I heard it this morning coming from the room over there. She pointed with one narrow, pale arm.

He nodded and held his beer in both hands in his lap.

It sounded nice. But you look so sad.

He did not answer.

What do you play?

Nothing special. Just music.

She clapped her hands and shot a hand out to Xavi’s shoulder, He should bring it out! Xavi said, Yes, man, bring it out.

Nicky continued to politely shake his head at their overtures, fingering the label on the beer bottle. Xavi said he wanted to hear real American music and Gisele asked him with a concerned look if he played rap. He said no and they continued to press him, but when she looked at him with a long and curious face and asked once more, he swirled the beer in his mouth for a moment and then rose from his chair. He played some old blues tunes, lyrics and rhythms that neither Xavi nor Gisele had ever heard. They clapped along and smiled and watched with young curiosity. Xavi said that he had been working at the hostel for three months, that he was working in Brazil illegally, and that Buenos Aires was a beautiful city. He said the people enjoyed it but they spent all their money so there were no jobs. He smoked Virginia Slims down to the filter and when Nicky asked him for one after the fourth beer, he hesitated.

Nicky said, I’ll pay you back.

They smoked for a while and talked about music. Gisele had been quiet the entire time, examining Nicky’s face or watching his fingers as they took their turn with the aching strings. After a while, the rain stopped and the air was heavy with the scent of bougainvillea and honey. She finally sat up in her chair and said, Do you know how to play any samba?

Nicky shook his head and handed over the guitar. She held it delicately within the angles of her narrow arms and narrow shoulders, and he caught a glimpse of how the white fabric of her shirt rose up over her chest.

Do you know this one? It’s from Gilberto Gil. It’s a song about a poor man. She leaned over the body and focused on her fingers trying to frame the chords, and she strummed deliberately and with the staccato rhythm of someone who does not play regularly. They both watched her play. As she began to sing, Nicky looked around and noticed the approaching evening. She sung in a low, husky voice. Her voice was not smooth, but she sang as if she were speaking and hummed the parts where she had forgotten the words. She closed her eyes and switched to another